


Pressure Point

by AimaDuragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimaDuragon/pseuds/AimaDuragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What's going to kill you?" Molly had asked. "Human error," was the only reply Sherlock could think to give.  Johnlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure Point

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for episodes up to 3.2. This story can also be found on another site (under the same pen name) so no I didn't steal it :) Just reposting to get a feel for how ao3 works. 
> 
> I also highly recommend that you watch the video "Pressure Point" by Pteryx on youtube, that this fic was inspired by. It's sorta amazing! All the quotes in italics are from the video/show.

_What's going to kill you?_ Molly had asked.

Sherlock felt the words like a bullet in his chest...or maybe a needle in his arm. Yes, it was definitely the needle. He liked needles so much better than he liked bullets.

_What's going to kill you?_

Cold. Why did he feel so cold? There, in the black hollow space of 221B, reclined in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. Had it always been this cold here? He couldn't seem to remember...

_What's going to kill you?_

Sherlock blinked, sucking air deep into his lungs.

_Human error._

He hated it, down to the deepest cavern of his being. He hated feeling this way. He hated that he felt anything at all. He hated being human. Weak. Messy. Breakable. Limited. Human. His body confined him. Oh how he longed to seep through the fibers of his skin and permeate the open air. What a freedom that would be. So much better than this gravity bound space that contained him now.

This was why he liked needles better than bullets. Needles could make it all go away, without the annoying side-effect of pain.

_We're losing you! Sherlock!_

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut once more. He didn't want to look at the chair in front of him and see that it was still empty. Where had they all gone—all the achingly bright moments that had once filled his life? Had they all left him behind to wallow alone in the dark? Alone. Alone. Always alone. Alone was what he had. Alone was what protected him. Wasn't that what he'd said?

_And everything he holds dear._

If he was alone long enough, he wondered if he would disappear. He wondered if he would just evaporate, all of the molecules in his body bursting apart and spreading out into irreparable nothingness. If he didn't exist in John's mind anymore, then where did he exist? No...not just John's mind. Why would his existence be limited only to John's mind?

_Interesting that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever._

Stop. Sherlock's head jerked to the side. He didn't want to think about John. Not when he was like this. Not when heroin was burning through his veins, and despair was replacing his blood.

_Oh, Sherlock...what have you done?_

Nothing. He'd done nothing. So what if he'd chosen the needle instead of the bullet? Wasn't that better? Less mess. People always seemed to get so hysterical around gunshot wounds. All the blood. Most people didn't like blood. 

Except John.

John was different somehow. Fundamentally. He'd seen the hard, jarring lines of London's underworld—seen how death thrived on her streets just as violently as life—and he hadn't even blinked. The danger and the near certain death, and even still his hands had always held steady. 

John's hands...so warm, and deft, and dependable. 

_You always said you were going to die._

Somehow, Sherlock had always thought it would be different in the end. He thought—he thought there would be less pain. Not physical pain—no—but this strange sort of ache that seemed to be blooming inside out. He’d always thought it would be something quick: a shot to the heart, poison in his tea, falling off the edge of a building. Not this slow, leeching agony. 

His chest hurt, like his ribs were cracking in and puncturing his lungs. He could feel his blood, hot and pumping ironically beneath his skin. He wished it would stop. Wires and electricity would be much more efficient at the job.

_You machine._

John thought too highly of him—he always had. None of this would've ever happened if he'd been a machine. He would never have walked out of John's wedding. He would never have stuck this needle in his arm.

Sherlock jerked away again. 

Why was this happening to him? Why did everything hurt? 

_So we need to focus._

He needed to get his mind off of John. He needed to figure out why this was happening—why he was unraveling in this new life he'd come back to. 

_Narrow it down._

To what? What was different? What had changed? Not the Yard. Certainly not the criminals. Not the flat—well, no...that wasn't quite right. The flat _was_ different now—empty spaces where a body had once been, and cold where heat had once lived.

_Solve it!_

John had gotten married.

_Focus!_

John had left him. John...the only person he'd ever allowed himself to care about...

_Caring is not an advantage._

Sherlock understood now why his brother had said that. He thought he'd understood before, but he hadn't. Not really. Losing Irene had been one thing, but this...losing John was like losing air. He was suffocating in this hollow reality that surrounded him.

This wasn't who he was. This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

_I'm not a hero, I'm a high functioning sociopath._

Sherlock heard a long high-pitched creak come from the other side of the room. The sound slid through his ears and pinched at his brain. Someone had opened the door.

"Sherlock?"

Something sharp and painful shot through Sherlock's chest. He opened his eyes, forcing his mind to swim back to the surface.

"John?"

_But look how you care about John Watson._

"Jesus, Sherlock. What have you done?"

Sherlock felt warmth envelope his face, and suddenly John was right upon him. Quick, nimble fingers ran along Sherlock's jawline, pressing into his pulse.

“John?"

Was this real? Was John here? But no…John was at his wedding ceremony—he couldn’t be here. And yet his face was filling up Sherlock’s vision to the brim, his brow tight and sweat slipping down into the collar of his tux. 

Sherlock wished that his skin would stop humming where John's hands touched him. He wished that his own hands would stop reaching out to grab the lapels of John's jacket. Because another person being near shouldn't make it easier to breathe. It didn't make any sense.

_John Watson is definitely in danger._

But he’d eliminated the impossible, and what was left, however improbable it may be, was the truth. Being with John eased something inside him—some deep coiled turmoil that only John could unravel. Sherlock inhaled deeply, soaking up John's presence like a dry sponge. This wasn't right. This wasn't _normal_.

"Sherlock," John's voice shook as he spoke. "Tell me what happened. God, I...we should get you to a hospital. Your pulse is racing."

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't want to go to the hospital. He didn't want to leave this moment. His hands tightened around John's jacket, as if he could make time stand still if he just held onto it hard enough.

"Ok, ok." John sank to his knees, his hands moving to wrap around Sherlock's. They were so warm. "Just tell me what happened."

Sherlock pursed his lips, caging his tongue behind clenched teeth.

_You have to control the pain._

"Sherlock...please."

_Sherlock, for me._

A hot pressure prickled at the backs of Sherlock's eyes. 

_Always._

"You got married," Sherlock said, feeling the words crack as they traveled up his throat. "You got married and now you're gone."

John shook his head, his blue eyes gleaming brightly in the dim room. "I'm not gone. I'm right here, Sherlock."

"But you're not. I died, and I was dead for two years and I thought I could come back here and find life again, but I can't. I'm still dead, John. I might as well be dead."

"Don't say that," John's hands tightened around his own, his nails digging painfully into Sherlock's skin. "Don't you dare say that—not after everything we've done. Not after everything we've been through."

_The story of two men...to the very best of times._

Sherlock swallowed thickly, a strange wetness sliding down his cheeks. "If I had just been here—"

"Stop it," John rose to his feet once more, hovering over Sherlock and brushing the pads of his thumbs across the sharp lines of Sherlock's cheekbones. "You're here now, and that's all that matters. You're my best friend and you're _here_. And just because I've got married doesn't mean that things have to change. I'll still be around. We'll still work cases together and go out to Angelo's and make fun of Lestrade behind his back. And I'll still yell at out when you burn the kitchen table, or leave your clothes strewn about the flat, and we'll still have Christmas parties and watch bad telly when we're not on a case. Me being married won't change anything."

Except it already has. It's already changed everything.

_I find it very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes._

John wasn't his anymore. No matter what John said, that much was true. And Sherlock didn't want a subset of John. He wanted all of him. Everything. He wanted John padding into the living room on a Saturday morning, his hair sticking straight up and his eyes not quite open yet. He wanted John brushing his teeth next to him. He wanted the smell of tea and warm fires and endless hours filled with nothing but the sound of John typing on his laptop. He wanted soft flaxen hair and blue eyes that saw too much. He wanted John's mouth and all the unspoken words it contained. He wanted John to say the word 'home' and it mean the place where Sherlock lived. And he wanted it all to belong to him and only him. If they belonged to someone else too, then what was the point?

He wanted John to belong to him.

_What's going to kill you?_

Sherlock pulled John forward, his neck craning so that their faces aligned. There was a moment then where everything went still, and Sherlock thought maybe time really had stopped. John's breath was hot on his face, and Sherlock could see confusion written in the lines around his eyes. But Sherlock didn't care. If he was going to die, then he would give himself this one thing. Just this one thing. 

Because he really wasn't a hero.

Sherlock pulled John down, pressing their lips together.

_Like I said: human error._


End file.
